Everything Seems Colder

The music is tolling my seconds as it always has
It's beautiful isn't it, to listen to your own downfall
Feeling each note pluck yet another hair from it's burrow
Till you are nothing but a quivering mass of paling goosebumps
And with tears in your eye and a faint shiver
You smile as if melancholy or nostalgia were the greatest of gifts.
I find myself like this most nights, no chance of sleep
Just listening intently for each sound which might solve this crisis
For any sound which might help it pass, for any sound at all which I haven't known before
And it's always crescendo's, disharmony, screamed cries, poetic lyrics on depression, alcoholism, suicide, murder, society, civilization, culture, lost love, starvation, always something just as cheerful.
You could say I do this to myself
I do, you're right
It's a hell of alot easier on me to find a quiet spot
Somewhere really fucking dark, really dark.. where no eyes might pry
My space, to sit in that area and pull a black cloth over my face
So no sights or scents will render me distracted
Or pull me back into reality long enough to keep my own thoughts bubbling
Just relishing the so called "nihilistic emptiness" of others
Which to me in all honestly
Is often the most engulfing display of emotion
With such honest expression they lie only to themselves
I'd like to consider myself a mere observer.
I get up and go for a piss
As quietly as I can so no one might notice my movements
I tilt my head from side to side and forget I ever had a mirror
I close my eyes and stare at the ceiling
As the warm steam of piss slowly encroaches
Then I shiver and pull my jeans up
Walking back, quietly and slowly.. near dazed
To return to a dark room
I then pace calmly as I can around my bed
Grabbing a candle
Which once placed into it's holder is lit and put to one side
With this light I scrape together a couple of shotties from overly used grinders
And then I sit still for a while
I breathe in, close my eyes and slowly release
Then reach for the sharpest of blades in the collection
Still stuck to each other with the grease used to preserve the edge
I peel them apart as bloodied tissue from skin
Unwravel a toilet roll until the floor, and my lower half are covered
Then wipe the grease from the blade
I remove my jacket and throw it somewhere behind me
Remove my top and do the same
Then I get goosebumps
The music consumes my every sense
And my love my every thought
Whilst my bowels churn and my lungs burn
But none of it means a thing
Except the sounds of others like me
Accepting the depression, embracing it
For there is no real choice
And though we live for others
At times like this
Everything seems colder.

(draft, unfinished and lacking punctuation, my apologies)